“You reached for the shelf,” he says. “Didn’t want you to pull a muscle.”
“My hero.”
“That’s me.” His tone is dry, but when I finally turn, there’s something heated in his expression that he shutters quickly. “Mountain man at your service.”
I focus on pancakes. Pancakes are safe. Pancakes don’t make my stomach flip or my skin tingle or my brain short-circuit.
Tank retreats to the small table by the window, giving me space. But his gaze tracks me as I work—measuring, mixing, heating the pan. My hands know these motions. Pancakes were one of the first things I taught myself to make when I left home at eighteen—proof I could survive on my own.
The batter sizzles when it hits the butter. I flip the first pancake with a satisfying flick of my wrist.
“Show-off,” Tank mutters.
“Jealousy doesn’t become you.”
“Not jealous. Just observing that you flip pancakes like you’ve got something to prove.”
I still, the spatula hovering. He’s more perceptive than I gave him credit for.
“Maybe I do,” I say finally. “Maybe I spent my whole childhood being told I’d never amount to anything without someone to take care of me. I learned to cook and clean and survive on my own just to prove the bastards wrong.”
The words slip out. Too much truth, too fast.
Silence stretches. I keep my eyes on the pan, suddenly desperate for him not to see whatever’s on my face.
“Sounds like the bastards were idiots,” Tank says quietly. “Anyone who looked at you and saw someone who needed taking care of wasn’t paying attention.”
My throat tightens. I flip another pancake with more force than necessary.
“Anyway.” I clear my throat. “I make excellent pancakes. That’s all you need to know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I plate the first stack and slide it across the table to him. Golden brown, perfectly round, steam rising in delicate curls.
He takes a bite.
His expression does something complicated. It softens in a way that makes him look younger and less guarded. Almost vulnerable.
“These are...” He stops. Clears his throat. Tries again. “My mom used to make pancakes on Sundays. Before.”
Before.The word hangs in the air, heavy with things unsaid.
I don’t ask. Don't push. I slide into the chair across from him and take a bite of my pancake, giving him space to share or not.
“She died when I was twelve,” he says, still not looking at me. “Dad couldn’t cook worth a damn. After that, Sunday breakfast was cold cereal and silence.”
My heart clenches. “Tank...”
“Haven’t had pancakes that tasted like anything since.” He finally meets my eyes, and his contain a rawness that makes my breath catch. “Until now.”
The moment stretches, fragile and unexpected. A door cracks open between us that neither of us planned.
I don’t know what to say. Words feel inadequate for the weight of what he’s just trusted me with.
So I reach across the table and touch his hand. Just briefly. Just enough.
“I’ll make them whenever you want,” I say softly. “No charge.”
